Return to Sender
by caithream
Summary: As the end of Dean's year looms closer, he feels the pressing need to return something back to Sam.


All their years of travel had sometimes led to the phenomenon of climate-jumping, waking up in one state and setting off in the early morning twilight and arriving late in the night with a numb ass and a protesting back to a completely different environment. Desert to mountains and salty seaside air to dense woodlands. He remembered once being meticulously bundled before they left a motel in at least six layers of clothing and the stony irritation of their father when not three hours down the road six layers became six too many. He figured Dad had tried his best to hole up for as many months they could in warmer climates, but sometimes it just wasn't possible.

Dean, however, seemed to be sticking to the cold like a tongue on an icy pole. Every time a hunt came up that dipped below the Mason-Dixon, he blew off Sam's info. Straightened his collar on his leather jacket and went back to cleaning the guns. Sam didn't exactly have the heart to make it a full-scale argument, no matter what the case was, so he just shrugged and pretended to interested in scouring the internet for something else.

Instead, he glanced up so frequently at his brother that he nearly got a headache.

Dean had gotten quieter, not exactly less apt to trouble, but, well. More reserved. Which was definitely not the term Sam would have used to describe his brother, ever; Dean had worn his emotions on his sleeves, made sure everyone in a three mile radius knew when he was annoyed or pissed off. It wasn't apathy. It was exhaustion. Sam could see it in his eyes. He could see it in the tense set of his shoulders. He could see it in the almost-dark, Dean lying still on the bed, pretending to sleep.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and then pulled his own coat tighter, his head banging slightly on the cold pane of the window as the Impala ate up the road beneath her.

There would be no more cold, as his brother would know it. Every memory of it, every faint idea of what cold was and what it felt like would be completely eradicated from Dean's mind, erased by licking flames and the taste of ash in his mouth.

It was more than Sam could even think about, so he squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingernails into his palms.

April in New Hampshire didn't exactly mean Spring. As it stood then, it meant the dirty slush of snow still lingering on the ground and frost on the newly blooming plants and trees that were struggling for purchase. It had been another day of weak sunshine in a clear blue sky, however, so that was something.

A little more than a month was all that was left, each date slipping away so glaringly obvious before them, but not a word about it was said between them. Dean knew Sam was still looking. Sam knew Dean held full certainty that there was nothing that could be done. Sam wanted to beat the shit out of him for it, but instead concentrated on fighting off the tight coil of helplessness in his chest.

Dean sniffed, wiping a hand across his nose. The rhythm he absently tapped across the dash behind the steering wheel wasn't any different from any other time spent in the driver's seat, though Sam knew better. Too many years of forced calm in front of Sam and Dean didn't know how to slip the mask off.

The highway before them stretched out to winding roads through the barely green trees, snowcapped mountains peaking through the pale branches that stretched towards the sky. No words were needed from Sam to tell Dean that the road was his, that they would go wherever he wanted. Sam never thought that New Hampshire would have equaled in to the equation, but yeah, Dean's newfound love for the cold. The mountains were just a plus in Sam's book.

"You hungry?" Dean said after a while, breaking Sam's almost-doze from the sway of the car on the snaking road.

"Sure," Sam replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pulling out the styrofoam containers of food they had gotten to-go from the diner at breakfast. Dean found a pull off on the side of the road with a lopsided picnic table, green paint peeling back from the rotten wood. They sat side by side on top of the table with their feet resting on the bench below, facing the opening of bare branches that framed the blue tinted mountains in the distance. Sam chewed on his turkey club, content.

"Never figured you one for scoping out scenery," he said. Dean grunted, noncommittal.

"Nice change of pace, or whatever," Dean said.

They ate in companionable silence, in no rush to leave when they finished. Sam leaned back on the heels of his palms, enjoying the crisp coldness of the air and the warmth of his brother beside him. Dean had been staring off, fidgeting slightly, a hand coming up rub at his neck every now and then.

"Sam," he finally said. Sam grinned slightly, but inwardly steeled himself.

"Yeah?"

Dean's palm was open in front of him, the amulet that had always hung around his neck now sitting coiled in his hand.

"_Dean_—" Sam tried.

"I want you to wear it. I want—" he let the black cord fall straight, dangling the amber piece in front of Sam. "It's yours. When I'm gone."

"What the fuck," Sam snapped, pulling away from him. "What the hell are you talking about? What the fuck, Dean?" He felt an irrational anger pooling inside him. All he'd done to avoid talking about it, to avoid upsetting him, and now Dean was quite literally shoving the subject back in his face, like being dunked in icy water with no warning whatsoever.

"I already know what you're going to say, so just shut up," Dean said, no anger behind his words. "I'm giving it to you when I'm gone, because it's going to happen, Sam."

"It's not," Sam said, seething.

"I'm not taking this down with me," he continued as if he didn't even hear Sam. "I don't want…. It doesn't belong. I mean, geez, even if I died some other way, you wouldn't be burying a corpse with this sucker on, would you?" He gave a wan smirk.

"Fuck you," Sam snarled. "How can you even say something like that? I fucking _gave_ that thing to you, I'm not taking it back."

"Yeah," Dean said, softer, his shoulders sagging as he looked at the ground. "That's. That's why I can't. It'll just. It'll just remind me of what I left behind," he mumbled.

Sam wanted to punch him, wanted to overthrow the picnic table, something. Using the guilt card. Unbelievable. Instead he tightly grasped Dean's wrists, so much so that Dean frowned and tried to pull his arms out of Sam's hands.

"No," Sam said forcefully. "It'll remind you that I haven't given up. It'll remind you that even if you do get dragged down there, I'll be _fighting_ for you. That I'll be coming. I don't want it. I gave it to you. It's _yours_."

Dean just stared back at him, his jaw clenched so hard Sam thought he was going to hear a tooth crack. "Sam," he finally said faintly, a plea on his lips.

"_No_," Sam said again. "It's my turn to be selfish now."

The look on Dean's face told Sam that his brother had no idea what to say to that.

Sam gave a long exhale out his nose, willing himself to calm down. He ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the mountains in the distance.

"C'mon," he said after a while. "Keys." That seemed to snap Dean out of it.

"What? No. Why?"

"Because of your dumbshit brain, that's why. You've been degraded to the passenger seat. Keys." Dean scowled.

"It's _my_ car, you bitch," he grumbled, trying as inconspicuously as possible to slip the amulet back over his head. He pulled the keys out of his jacket pocket and stared down at them, finally throwing them up in the air towards him, as Sam had anticipated. "Was getting tired anyway," Dean said nonchalantly, stretching. "Wake me when we get to uh…. Fuck, I don't even know. Away from these stupid mountains. You're getting all misty-eyed just looking at them, Jesus."

They got in, and Sam turned the ignition, pulling them out back onto the highway. Dean curled himself into nearly the same position Sam had been in a little over an hour ago, and Sam settled in for the long haul. It was silent for nearly ten miles before Dean piped up again.

"Could always use it as a hood ornament."

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing this was Dean's way of saying he was sorry, more or less.

"Could always degrade you to the backseat," he countered. "It'll be like Dad's timeouts all over again."

"Aw, Sam. Don't make me give you a Wet Willy."

"Could squeeze you in the trunk, if I really wanted to."

"Mean bastard," Dean mumbled. Sam glanced over to see Dean's eyes close. Sam smiled, and pushed down a little harder on the gas, for one small, simple moment content to be on the road to nowhere.


End file.
